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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/22700575">Conspiracy</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Deiwimin/pseuds/Deiwimin'>Deiwimin</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>House Bolton, M/M, Tragic Thramsay - Freeform, misuse of corpses</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-02-13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-02-13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-04-28 11:29:11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>258</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/22700575</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Deiwimin/pseuds/Deiwimin</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Sombre occasion, yet not one shed a tear upon the dead. Lord Roose Bolton ruled since he was a strip of a man, now he left at weightful an age, though not old and grey. The leeches drained the very last of him. </i>
</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Ramsay Bolton/Theon Greyjoy, Roose Bolton/Theon Greyjoy</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>16</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Conspiracy</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>He had the same wilderness about him, down to the spittle on his lip. But the eyes, they wore a stranger's tune.<br/>
Reek froze in hapless terror.</p><p>This was not his beloved master.</p><p>To begin with; the eye, it was a paler shade of grey. He came to find; this master did not binge on his meals and wines, and would not beat him so much as hit hard. He never touched Ale, nor mead. Then slowly the lips, even the lips lost their angry blush.</p><p>But it couldn't be so. He had the same midnight hair, the slight bitten ears. But where was the red stone that adorned his right? Oh mercy, mercies for poor creatures of the ground, he was going mad!</p><p>But in Reek's eyes, he wasn't staring into cruel kindnesses. He saw a different monster. And it was a soul corroding abyss.</p><p>Had his father died, leaving Ramsay heir, his master should surely rejoice. Lamenting in the crypt halls were not things his master would ever honour. Even if so, he never took visit on the familiar graves, nor shed any tear. This was no man heavied by grief. This was no man.</p><p>Reek could recall a hag, withered hair hidden behind hair sash. Wraiths, she had told. Spirits, ghouls and trolls. Beautiful demonesses and alluring devils. The fire licked the firewood, sparking imbalance and fascination.</p><p>There was only a dooming horror now, impending his future, reciting it to him in Lord Roose's cold voice. A dead one, which should stay under the stone.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I remember a somewhat old thread discussing different theories on Roose, and the lineage of house Bolton in general. One of the conspiracy theories was that Lord Bolton was in fact immortal, and he has been moving through each generation of the Red Kings, and more current rulers of the Dreadfort by wearing their skins.</p><p>This is what all this was about.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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